The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [60]
“Who’s Mr. Sinclair? The woman I spoke to, Vicky Sinclair, didn’t use the word ‘niece.’ ”
“Mr. Sinclair is the owner of Blackbird Hall. Nowadays he mostly lives in London, making money hand over fist. Vicky is his housekeeper. They’re distant cousins.”
So this was who had done the authorising, I thought. “Does he ever come here?”
“In the summer. You’ll like Vicky. She’s a grand lass. Did she mention her brother?”
“Just that they work on the farm together.”
My companion’s eyes darkened. “He’s good with the cattle, Seamus, I’ll grant him that, but hard as a horseshoe. I ran into him last month, walking around the Stones. He couldn’t even be bothered to raise his hat. They say he never got over being a Bevin Boy, but plenty of people were in the war and didn’t lose their manners.”
What were the Stones, I wondered, and what was a Bevin Boy? I asked about the former, and the man said could he buy me a cup of tea. I told him I’d prefer ginger beer and followed him into the cabin. When we were settled with our drinks by the window, he said that the main island of the Orkneys had several remarkable Stone Age sites, including a chambered tomb and a ring of standing stones. There was even a Stone Age village, which had been buried for centuries and emerged after a tremendous storm.
“Like Pompeii.” I had loved translating Pliny’s account of the eruption.
Again he seemed doubtful. “But I’m forgetting my manners,” he said. “I’m Alec Johnson.”
I gave my name and asked if I could borrow his binoculars. At first, as I fiddled with the focus, I saw only a blur of water. Then a cormorant flew by and I could count each dull brown feather. As dusk came on, Mr. Johnson drank his tea and read the newspaper; I alternated between gazing directly at the sea and gazing through the lenses. Almost too soon the lights of Stromness appeared, stretching along the harbour and up the hill.
“You must come back in daylight to see the town,” said Mr. Johnson. “It’s a pretty place. People here aren’t fussy about appearances,” he added, “but I’m going to run a comb through my hair. Good luck, Miss Hardy.”
You’re wearing a hat, I wanted to say. Then I understood that I was the one who needed to use a comb. I had left my Alice band at Claypoole, and the mirror in the ladies’ room showed my hair wild as a scarecrow’s. By the time I emerged and manoeuvred my suitcases down the gangway, the last car was being winched ashore and most of the other passengers had disappeared. No one stepped forward to greet me, and surveying the poorly lit harbour, I saw no one waiting. I had not thought to ask Miss Sinclair what I should do if her brother wasn’t there. I set my luggage beside a stack of lobster traps and circled the nearest streetlight, trying to keep warm, trying not to worry that I had misunderstood the arrangements. Opposite the harbour I spotted a hotel. I was about to start lugging my suitcases over—surely it would have a telephone—when I saw headlights approaching. The vehicle, a Land Rover, came to an abrupt halt; a man climbed out. Even in the darkness his scowl was unmistakable.
“Gemma Hardy,” he said flatly, each syllable a stone dropped into a deep well.
I admitted that I was.
“You’re nothing but a wean.”
“I’m eighteen,” I said. “You’re confusing size and age.”
“No. I’m not.” His scowl sharpened, and for a moment I thought he might simply turn and walk away. “Well, this is Vicky’s mess,” he said at last. “Come on.”
“What’s your name?” I asked, but he had already seized my suitcases. Without a word he shoved them into the back, got into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. I was still closing the passenger door when the vehicle jerked forward. We drove past a row of houses. Soon the last streetlight was gone. Wind whistled through chinks in the floor and around the ill-fitting door. I sat on my hands for warmth.
“How far is it?” I asked.
Nothing.
Remembering my conversation with Mr. Johnson, I tried again. “What’s a Bevin Boy?”
“For God’s sake, shut your trap.”
Hard as a horseshoe, I thought.